Spare the Rod
by Louise-Anne
Summary: Erik and the Girys have been in America for 3 years and Erik is the head of a travelling fair. When his property is damaged and Meg injured, can she convince Erik that those responsible do not deserve the wrath of the Opera Ghost? Does Erik still curse mercy?


**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Erik, Meg Giry or Dr. Gangle**

**Author's Note: Happy New Year, one and all! This one-shot was originally intended to be a chapter of "The Angel's Shadow", but evolved into this piece. I hope you enjoy it! Please read and review.**

Spare the Rod

"Carlotta started to sing, and we all stood there watching her… and suddenly, I could _feel_ his presence in the air. It went cold suddenly, and…"

The wide-eyed faces continued to gaze at me, a couple of mouths slightly open; damn but I was a good storyteller.

"And?" Demanded one member of my expectant audience.

"Go on, Miss Giry!"

I smiled. "And then, there was an almighty wrenching noise, and the backdrop fell on top of La Carlotta!"

A collective gasp.

"Was she hurt?"

"Was there any blood?"

"Did she _die_?"

I couldn't help my chuckle. "No, Alfie, she didn't die. And nothing was hurt except her pride, and her ankle. But it was enough for Carlotta, she stormed off swearing that she wouldn't sing again. So, the Opera Ghost got his way."

The children glanced at each other, and Alfie spoke up once again.

"How did you _know_ it was the Opera Ghost?"

"Because Joseph Buquet, who was supposed to be up in the flies controlling the scenery, came onto the stage from the wings, telling us that he hadn't been at his post. There was no one else up there, I could see from where I was standing. It was, without doubt, the Opera Ghost."

Alfie gave a little shrug, unconvinced but having to settle for my explanation. I grinned at them all.

"It's getting late. You'd all better get back to your parents or they'll be no hot dinner left for any of you."

The dozen or so children sitting around me got to their feet and left the small tipi-shaped tent in which I had been telling my tale. Benjamin Alexander took my hand to help me up from where I had been sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"You do know how to spin a good yarn," he told me, almost admiringly.

"Very kind of you to say, Ben." I brushed down my skirt. "I try my best."

Benjamin and I had acquired our roles as babysitters fairly recently, and to my surprise, I found that I wasn't as bad with children as I had feared. Over the three years we had been in America, Erik had garnered quite a following among the travelling fairs and sideshows through which we had passed, performing music and magic. Those who felt that their working conditions were inadequate, or simply believed that Erik would be a better businessman and boss had latched onto us, become part of our team. They had not had reasons to regret their decision, for although Erik still kept almost everyone at arms' length and could be as terrifying as a devil when he was in one of his tempers, he truly was a good boss and a savvy businessman. As more people joined our group, they brought with them their spouses and children. For a couple of hours each evening, Benjamin and I would entertain the young ones while the adults did repairs to the attractions, worked on their routines, or simply spent a few quiet moments child-free.

Benjamin unhooked the lantern from the pole over our heads and pulled back the tent flap to let me out first.

"How much of that story is actually true?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" I grinned over my shoulder and then turned my gaze back to the field where we were currently camped. The dots of light across the field that marked the tents were mirrored in the cloudless sky above my head, and I scanned the stars, looking for the constellations Erik had taught me.

"So, Meg, any plans for the evening?" Benjamin asked and I rolled my eyes, thankful that my back was to him. At least once a week, he tried to work up the nerve to asking me to spend the evening in his company, and every time I dreaded having to turn him down. He was a kind-hearted man who worked hard constructing, moving and dismantling the scenery for our shows. He had dark hair and eyes, was leanly built and four inches taller than me.

"Something to eat, and then to bed with a book." I told him.

"Oh come on," Benjamin said. "We're performers, we're supposed to be wild types out causing trouble."

"Ben, I'm too old to be out causing trouble."

"You're nineteen! The night is young, we are young."

"Ben…" I turned to him. "It's very kind, what you're trying to do, but you're trying to do it with the wrong girl."

The smile on his face stiffened.

"It's because of him, isn't it? The boss?"

"Mister Y and I are friends, nothing more." I rubbed my forehead, wishing I weren't having this conversation. "I know there are rumours about us, but believe me, his interest in me is purely paternal."

"I'll bet." He sighed. "Just friends too, then, you and I?"

"Friends." I gave him the best smile I could manage.

"Well, if you ever change your mind…"

"You'll be the first to know," I assured him. "I'll see you in the morning, alright?"

He took my hand, bowing over it and pressing his lips to my knuckles.

"_Bonne nuit, Mademoiselle Giry,_" he said, and straightened up. "_Dormez bien_."

"_Et vous_." I replied, before turning and walking towards the spot where my tent was pitched. I spun around after a few paces, looking back to see him trudging off in the opposite direction. "Your accent is _still_ dreadful!"

"Maybe I just need more coaching!" He called back, not looking around, but I could hear the humour in his voice, and laughed.

"Goodnight, Ben."

"Goodnight!"

Erik—or Mister Y, to use his current pseudonym—had the largest of the residential tents, mainly because of his insistence on keeping a piano in there. Mother and I had a tent that held just our beds and our clothes, so most of our time was spent in Erik's. It was not an ideal arrangement by any means, but had to do for the time being. I undid the tent flap.

"Anybody home?"

The interior of Erik's tent lacked much in the way of decoration – it was impractical when we were moving around so much – but it did consist of two rooms, one of which held his bed, the other a main room with the small, lightweight piano, a divan, a privacy screen where Erik stored his clothes, a chest, and a desk. The man himself was seated at the piano, immaculately dressed as always, black wig slicked back, mask in place. He looked up from the instrument as I ducked inside.

"Evening." I said in French. "Has Mother left already?"

He nodded and frowned.

"She'll be back around four a.m." He replied in English and I fought back a sigh. Erik insisted that while we were in America, we spoke English, even among ourselves. Only if he was saying something he didn't want anyone else to overhear would he speak to me in our native French.

"I'm going to get some dinner." I told him in English. "Have you eaten?"

"Not yet. What is tonight's culinary experiment?"

"Curried chicken, as far as I know. Feeling adventurous?"

"Adventurous enough, yes." He gave me a small smile. I nodded and went to the catering tent to fetch us both a plate of food.

XxXxXxXxX

"Miss Giry!" A small hand tugged at mine and I looked down to see a young girl gazing worriedly back at me.

"Georgiana? What is it?" I blinked at her through the early evening sunshine of the following day.

"It's Methuselah," the girl wailed. "He went into one of the tents and got stuck up the main pole!"

"The pole?" I repeated. "Why would your kitten climb a tent pole?"

"We think he was chasing a pigeon." Said another voice. Georgiana's older brother Alfie arrived at her side.

"Everyone else is busy, Miss Giry." Georgiana said, her eyes are wide as that of the kitten she was so concerned for. "We can't leave him up there!"

I sighed, knowing that everyone was indeed busy. Erik had done a circuit of his employee's acts earlier in the day and had been less than impressed with the standard, claiming angrily that the week's journey from our previous camp had lulled everyone into not bothering anymore.

"We open in two days!" He raged at the company in general. "And this sloppy mess is completely unacceptable! If you want people to come and see your performances for the fortnight we are here then make them worth seeing! You will work or so help me God, there will be no pay!"

Erik was a hard taskmaster, something Mother often chided him on, but even she had to admit that the standard had slipped. So now people were indeed trying to spruce up their acts and there was no one available to perform a feline rescue.

"Where is this cat of yours?" I asked, and Alfie grabbed my other hand, the two siblings pulling me towards the edge of the campsite. The tent they indicated was used for storing props, sets and equipment that was not currently needed, its white canvass glowing orange as the sun set. Two more boys, the O'Donnell twins, were standing outside it, Tristan holding an oil lamp.

"Is Methuselah still in there?" Alfie asked, and Kieran giggled.

"Still there!" He confirmed, and I sighed.

"Well, his knight in shining armour has arrived."

I followed the children into the tent and Georgiana pointed to the top of the central pole, where a furry shape could be seen on the crossbar.

"Stupid animal," I muttered under my breath, looking around the tent. At the moment it was mostly full of wooden chairs, stacked on top of each other in great wobbling piles, a few set pieces, and yes, there was a ladder. I propped the ladder against the pole and looked sternly at my four companions.

"None of you are to attempt to look up my skirts, understood?"

They nodded and tittered, and I raised an eyebrow before starting to climb the ladder. How did a kitten no more than a few weeks old manage to climb a near-smooth tent pole anyway? I'd seen no feathers on the ground to indicate there had been a pigeon there. I was almost at the top when there was a mighty giggling and scuffling below me. I looked down to see the last of the four children exiting the tent at a run; at least they'd left the oil lamp behind on the ground, even if it was turned down so low I could hardly see anything. I gave another sigh and reached up to the animal.

"Alright, Methuselah, I'm here to rescue you, you stupid creature. Now no scratching."

My hands closed on fur, but there was no noise, no scratching, no movement of any kind. Confused, I turned the kitten towards me to find that it was nothing more than a stuffed toy, probably made from rabbit fur, with glass marbles for eyes.

"Very funny," I growled under my breath. "Getting me to climb twelve feet in the air for no reason at all."

And it was at that moment when the ladder slipped. To this day I still don't know if it was an accident, or part of the prank that had been played on me, but whatever it was the ladder moved under my feet and my hands just had time to let go of the toy and grab the crossbar of the tent before it dropped from beneath me entirely. It landed directly on the oil lamp, shattering it, and that was when the game turned deadly. Oil splashed and flames leapt, and before I knew what was happening the wooden inhabitants of the tent were burning.

Eyes watering from the smoke and heat that was already immense, I swung my body towards one of the piles of chairs that was as yet untouched by fire. If I just tried to drop straight down then the fall would probably kill me, but if I could get the chairs to break my fall, I might be in with a chance. It was my only option. I went crashing into the chairs, sending them tumbling like children's building bricks, in part cushioning my fall, but bringing a second pile down on top of me at the same moment. Pain bit deep in my right ankle and left shoulder, and I struggled to free myself from the net of wood and canvass that had closed over me.

I made it out into the open air just in time, dragging myself across the grass with one leg that was hardly functioning, and heard the tent collapse behind me. Someone was grabbing me by the arms, a man whose name I couldn't remember, pulling me further away from danger.

"Was there anyone else in there?" He screamed at me, and I shook my head, coughing. "Are you sure?!"

"Yes! It was just me!" I managed.

There was shouting and screaming, but somehow amid the chaos people were already starting to form a bucket chain from the stream at the edge of the field, splashing water over the burning tent. I only thanked God that it was at a distance from the rest of the camp, or everything could have gone up in a spout of flames. I could see Erik among them, without jacket or waistcoat, his shirtsleeves rolled up, passing buckets along the line, his six-foot-two-inches in height making him stand out tall against the men in his employ. The conflagration was over far faster than I had anticipated, and I still lay on the grass, coughing.

"Meg!" Benjamin was barrelling towards me. "Meg! Are you alright?! Bernard said you were in there when the tent collapsed!"

"When the fire started," I corrected. "I've hurt my ankle, Ben, and my shoulder…"

"Come on," he helped me up and I tried not to scream as my weight leant on my ankle and he tried to put my left arm around him. "We'll get you back to your tent and I'll—"

"Other arm! Other arm!"

"Sorry!" He tried to manoeuvre himself around me, my clumsy hero, but another body was already supporting my weight.

"I'll take her, boy." Erik swept me off my feet and into his arms. "Fetch Dr. Gangle and tell him to come to my tent."

"Yes, Mister Y." He gave a nod and sped off towards the crowds as Erik carried me in the other direction.

"You have an admirer in young Benjamin." He said and I groaned.

"Please, Erik, don't tease me. My ankle hurts."

"Which ankle?"

"Right. And my left shoulder. My arm is… it feels like it's…"

"Dislocated." He stated with a nod.

He ducked inside his tent and set me down on the divan, then knelt and began undoing my bootlaces and easing it off.

"Ow!"

"Sorry."

I looked down at him, wincing as his cold fingers prodded at my ankle. There was a smear of soot across his mask and down his other cheek, his cravat was undone and his shirt collar open. I could feel the perspiration beading my forehead from the heat and the pain, and yet I was starting to feel cold.

"Who let everyone know something was wrong?" I asked.

"One of the O'Donnell twins. Kieran, I think. He came running in babbling about the props tent and that there was danger. It took a few moments for us to work out what he was trying to tell us."

"Us?"

"I was with his parents at the time."

The tent flap opened again and Dr. Gangle entered, still dressed in the red and gold costume he wore as Master of Ceremonies, but carrying a Gladstone bag. He was an incredibly thin man with a bald head, and even taller than Erik; even standing in the middle of the tent he had to lower his head to keep it from touching the canvass ceiling. Gangle was not his real name, but he was a qualified physician and a good one.

"Ben told me you were my patient," He said, giving me a friendly smile as he knelt by his employer. His English was lightly accented in German, as Erik's and mine was with French. "Ankle and shoulder injuries, I'm told."

"Her ankle seems to be broken." Erik replied.

"Ow!" I complained, as Dr. Gangle's warm fingers replaced Erik's cold ones, and the man nodded.

"Definitely broken. Feels like a clean break, though. No dancing for you, Miss Giry, not until it heals."

"And how long will that take?" I worried.

"Four to six weeks, provided you're careful and stay off it."

I groaned. Six weeks with no dancing was like telling me there would be six weeks with no food; I had to dance to earn my keep. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that Erik would not really abandon me after three years in America just because of a broken ankle, but on the other hand he could be so unpredictable it was difficult to judge what his reaction might be.

"I'm sorry…" I told him pathetically.

"I'll strap up your ankle for you, Miss Giry." The doctor continued. "You are to _rest_, do you understand? Try to do anything too soon and it will only worsen the injury. I'm sure Mister Y can find something for you to do that does not include dancing."

I glanced at Erik, wondering whether he would take the comment as a gibe, but his masked face remained impassive.

"What about general day-to-day getting around?"

"I would advise you spend as much time in one place as possible, with your foot up, but I'll see if we can find some crutches for when there's no avoiding it. I'll give you something for the pain."

"Thank you, Dr. Gangle."

"And then we'll see about your shoulder."

My shoulder was burning with a deep, throbbing agony, but I still groaned after Dr. Gangle had finished strapping up my ankle and told Erik to help me undress. We both went scarlet as I undid the buttons of my blouse, the colouring rising up Erik's neck and face like the mercury in a thermometer. I thanked my own instincts that I had not put on a gown this morning; Erik had seen me in my underwear—and indeed scantier outfits when I had been performing onstage—but having him help me take my clothes off was embarrassing for both of us. I clenched my teeth as Erik eased my left arm out of the sleeve of my blouse, leaving me in my skirt, chemise and corset. His arm went around me as he helped me lie back on the divan.

"I'm sorry, Meg, this is going to hurt," Dr. Gangle said, his hands gently taking my left arm. "But we have to relocate the shoulder. Mister Y, if you would give me a hand…"

"Don't," I begged as Erik leant his weight on me.

"I must," was his reply.

"You've done this before?"

"Many times. Don't look at your shoulder, Meg, look at me. It'll all be over in a moment."

I stared at him, at the golden glow of the lamp reflecting off his mask, and his lips formed the words "_Be brave_."

"On three then," Dr. Gangle said, and I tensed at once. "One, two, three!"

Both men applied pressure, there was a horrible click, a blinding pain, and I _screamed_.

"_Merde_!"

"Meg," Erik's tone was reproachful.

"I'm sorry," I panted. "I'm sure you rather I cursed in English. _Shit_ but that hurt!"

"Better now?" Dr. Gangle wiped the sweat from my forehead with a handkerchief.

"Much," I replied as Erik's weight left me and his arm encircled me again to help me sit. "Thank you."

The pain in my shoulder was already fading, but the doctor told me I still needed to have my arm in a sling for a couple of weeks. I tried not to grind my teeth audibly at that.

"Benjamin!" Erik suddenly bellowed, making me jump. "Stop loitering, boy, and make yourself useful!"

There was a second's hesitation before Benjamin looked into the tent, face red.

"I… sorry, sir… I was worried, I heard Meg scream…"

"Find Miss Giry a new blouse, Mr. Alexander," Erik said evenly. "And don't lurk around my tent. Your friend will be fine."

"Yes, Mister Y."

He withdraw quickly and I glared at Erik; he gave me a devilish smile in return. After a few minutes, Benjamin returned with another of my blouses and passed it to Erik, keeping his eyes averted from my half-clad form.

"Anything else, Mister Y?"

"No thank you, Benjamin. You may go." He favoured my friend with a quick smile. "I'll let you know Miss Giry's condition in the morning."

He brought the blouse over to me while I maintained my hostile expression.

"You deliberately embarrassed him," I accused hotly.

"He shouldn't have been prowling around," he replied.

"You embarrassed me."

He helped me into the new blouse and buttoned it for me. Dr. Gangle put my arm in a sling, and routed around in the bag for the promised medication.

"Thank you for your help, Dr. Gangle," Erik said. "I'll take care of Meg now."

The thin man hesitated, a syringe in his hand.

"Mister Y, I should administer this myself…"

"Dr. Gangle," Erik replied firmly. "I need to hear what happened today from Meg, while it is still clear in her mind, before the painkiller dulls it. I am not going to steal medicine from your patient for my own recreational use. You have my word. The syringe, please."

After another brief hesitation, the doctor passed over the syringe, nodded to me, and left the tent. Erik sighed, set the syringe down on his desk, and poured a glass of brandy. I eyed him uncertainly as he brought the glass over to me and pressed it into my unfettered hand.

"Tell me." He said simply.

I hesitated, sipping the brandy to hide the pause, but Erik knew me too well. He had once told me he could read me like a score, and it was true that he was he was apt at deciphering my body language.

"Tell me the truth."

It was an order, and I sighed. I could read him as well, and I knew that now he was certain I was going to be alright, he could allow himself to get angry.

"It was an accident," I said. "Before you lose your temper, you have to understand that."

"An accident that got you hurt and has cost me over one hundred dollars in damaged property."

He leaned against the desk and rolled down his shirtsleeves, reaching into his trouser pocket for the cufflinks. I told him carefully about the kitten stuck up the pole, the ladder slipping and causing the fire, and my novel twelve-foot-drop.

He sighed. "And who did this kitten belong to?"

"Well… Erik, that's the point. There was no kitten, it was just a soft toy."

"It was a prank," he said, looking at me steadily.

"A practical joke," I nodded.

"A joke that ended up costing me over a hundred dollars and could have gotten you killed! Who was responsible for this hilarious trick?"

"Erik, I told you, it was an accident. No one knew the ladder would slip, they didn't mean any harm."

"Which 'they'?" He demanded, and I took another swallow of brandy. He snatched the glass away from me. "Meg!"

"Alfie and Georgiana Anderson," I admitted. "And the O'Donnell twins."

His breath escape in an angry hiss and he knelt, opening the chest. He took out a bottle of alcohol, a cloth and a thin leather strap.

"Erik," I begged. "Don't be angry with them. They're only children and children play pranks."

He didn't reply, coming over to me and wrapping the strap around my upper arm, pulling viciously tight.

"You're hurting me!" I cried. "What are you doing?"

"Finding a vein," he said. "Now be quiet."

I watched the veins begin to stand out purple against my skin, and after a moment, Erik poured a little of the alcohol on the corner of the cloth and wiped it over my arm before reaching for the syringe.

"Quick pinch," he told me, and slid the needle into the chosen vein before I had a chance to draw breath.

"Erik," I grabbed his wrist as he withdrew the needle, before he had time to pull away. "Please, don't blame the children, it was my fault."

"How was it your fault?" He demanded, wrenching his wrist free and undoing the leather strap.

"I'd been… telling them stories. About the Opera Ghost, about the tricks you used to play on us in Paris."

"You've what?" He asked coldly.

"They think it's all made up," I added quickly. "And they've no reason to think Mister Y and the Opera Ghost are one and the same, but…"

"That's probably what inspired this foolish attempt at humour." He concluded grimly, rising to his feet. I watched him put away the supplies, slamming the lid of the chest shut, and then begin pacing, hands behind his back. "How do you know this prank was just getting you to 'rescue' a soft toy? How do you know their intention was not to make you fall?"

"Because they're children," I exclaimed, surprised he even had to ask. "They're not that cruel!"

"Children can be very cruel," he countered.

"Not to adults. And not the Andersons or the O'Donnells."

He sighed, running a hand down his cheek.

"I shall talk to their parents."

"Good." I nodded. "Leave the disciplining to them."

"Oh, I'll be dishing out discipline," he replied coldly. "But it would be… unwise to punish the child without the consent of the parent."

"What are you going to do?" I asked, a cold knot twisting in my stomach.

"Spare the rod," he quoted. "Spoil the child."

"No!" I made a grab for him again, catching hold of his sleeve as he passed so that he turned to me. "Erik, no! You cannot beat these children, I forbid it!"

"You cannot forbid me anything, Meg." He said dangerously. "You can't perform for six weeks, and you will be in considerable pain during that time, not to mention being an inconvenience to myself and your mother." His tone softened. "You might have died, girl. We have lost valuable sets and equipment, and I dread to think what would have happened if the fire had spread. Regardless of it being unintentional, I cannot let this go unpunished."

I looked at him unhappily, knowing that he was right, and that I had no influence over him, but unwilling to let it go at that.

"As the injured person here, I should have some say."

"And what would that say be?"

"Go easy on them." I pleaded. "It _was_ an accident, Erik. They don't deserve the wrath of the Opera Ghost. They're just _children_. The boys are ten and Georgiana is only eight."

He gazed down at me for a moment, and then nodded.

XxXxXxXxX

Whatever painkiller had been injected into me, it was a powerful drug. I hadn't even realised I had fallen asleep until awoke. Erik had tucked a blanket around me at some point, and three people I vaguely recognised were just leaving the tent. I sat up, worried.

"How long was I asleep? Was that…"

"Mrs Anderson and the O'Donnells." Erik turned to me, his expression grim. He had cleaned himself up and was back to his usual impeccable self, dressed in waistcoat and tailcoat, cravat back in place. "And to answer your original question, about an hour."

"What have you done?!" I demanded.

"Nothing, yet, calm yourself. I've just been speaking to the parents."

"And?"

"And I have to say that your point of view is very much in the minority. Mrs Anderson is particularly furious at her offspring's behaviour, I don't think I've ever seen her so angry. She even provided a belt to do the deed."

He gestured to the desk where a brown leather belt lay folded, and I shuddered. I had been on the receiving end of a belt beating more than once, and they were not experiences I was going to forget. Erik continued, his voice unmoved by the action he was contemplating.

"The children are coming here now."

"Erik," I began. "_Please_—"

The closest thing to a knock that could occur on canvass interrupted me, and Erik turned to the tent flap.

"Enter."

The flap lifted and the four children came in. The boys looked fearful and stood awkwardly, but Georgiana rushed across the tent, ignoring Erik completely, and threw herself at me. There were tears streaming down her cheeks and her small arms went around me. I clenched my teeth against the pain as her slight weight pressed against my injured arm, and other bruises and scrapes hidden by my clothing.

"Miss Giry!" She sobbed. "We're so sorry! We didn't mean for you to get hurt! Is your arm broken?! When we smelled the smoke, we were so _scared_! Kieran ran to tell someone straight away and he found Mister Y—"

"Georgiana," I interrupted. "Sweetheart, you're hurting me."

"I'm sorry!" She backed off at once. Her brother and the twins were looking between us and Erik. He was watching too, his eyes blazing.

"Georgiana Anderson!" He snapped. "Come here immediately! Stand by your brother!"

The girl looked at Erik as if she had only just realised he was there, and hurried to obey. I raised an eyebrow at him and he glowered at me, then turned the glare on the children.

"Miss Giry's arm is not broken," he began. "But her ankle is, and her shoulder was dislocated. She won't be able to perform for six weeks and is in a lot of pain. On top of that, the fire that ensued destroyed all of our seating, several set pieces and props, and the tent itself." His voice lowered to a growl. "So explain to me what the hell you were thinking of!"

There was a moment of silence before Tristan spoke in a stammer.

"Mister… Mister Y, it… it was a joke… we only wanted to see if Miss Giry would rescue a stuffed toy, that's all, sir."

"We had no idea what would happen…" Alfie said.

"We're so sorry, Miss Giry," Kieran added, and the others hastily nodded their agreement.

"What happened," Erik growled. "Was that the ladder Miss Giry climbed slipped, smashed an oil lap, and she fell! She could have been killed! And if the fire had spread, many other people could have died! Do you understand that?!"

"Yes, Mister Y," came the answer.

"Almost paling into insignificance is the amount of money you have cost me! Everything that was damaged will have to be replaced, along with the tent! And then there's the reputation of the company to consider. If this incident causes us to become known as trouble-makers then we could be refused permission to perform in future! That means no money and no food for anyone!" All the time he spoke, Erik paced, tall and menacing. He seized the belt from his desk. "If it were up to me and your parents, I would be thrashing each one of you right now! Luckily for you, Miss Giry has asked for clemency on your behalf."

Frightened and confused eyes looked at me.

"Mercy," I clarified. "I asked Mister Y to show you mercy." My tone came out bitter. "I had thought, underneath it all, he was a good man."

He turned and took two steps towards me, his eyes furious, but I didn't flinch, although I wanted to. God, how I wanted to. He spun back to the four anxious faces.

"Hands out in front of you!" He barked. "Palms up, right now!"

All four children obeyed, obviously terrified. Erik stalked along the line, bringing the belt down unmercifully, once on each upturned palm. I tried not to wince in sympathy with each loud thwack, knowing that Erik would be considering himself restrained.

"Now," he said after a moment, grasping the belt behind his back in both hands. "All four of you will report to me at six o'clock tomorrow morning to start working, to pay off the cost of the damage you've caused, and you may all consider yourselves to have been very leniently dealt with." He glared at the cowering children. "If anything of this nature occurs again then I will be whipping backsides, do I make myself clear?"

There was a mumble of acknowledgement from four throats.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Yes, Mister Y."

"Good. Now be off with you."

They left, Georgiana sobbing harder than ever. I could hear Mrs Anderson start shouting the moment they were outside the tent, and with a roll of his eyes and another glare at me, Erik followed them. I struggled upright and hobbled over to tent flap to hear what was being said, sitting down on the piano stool.

"—stupid, disrespectful brats!" Mrs Anderson was ranting. Erik's golden voice interrupted smoothly, all dignity and grace.

"Mrs Anderson, all of these children are well aware of what their misguided actions have caused. They have apologised both to Miss Giry and myself, and I have administered what punishment I see fit."

"But Mister Y—" She began, but Erik would not let her finish.

"Madam, I thought we were all agreed that while you travel with my company, you consider me to be the highest authority. The subject is closed. And if I have cause to suspect that you have used further corporal punishment against these children, then I will consider it to be abuse."

I blinked when I heard that. Erik was not a man I ever considered to be all that fond of children, concerned for their welfare, or for the way their parents managed discipline. I had thought tonight that he intended to beat all four children with that belt the way my father had beaten me; indeed Erik had threatened me with worse when he was in his foulest of tempers. But then again, I was not a child any longer, even if he did call me "girl" from time to time. When he raised his hand to me or to my mother, it was a woman he struck. Was that better?

I struggled to remember what Erik had told me of his own childhood. It was very little, and the picture I got had to be pieced together from odd snatches of conversation, comments he had made. His deformed face had made him an outcast from birth, his childhood had not been a happy one, and beatings from his mother and then his first master had been numerous. Maybe it was this, and not my words, that had tempered his actions tonight.

A draught of night air caught my hair as Erik stepped back into the tent, looking at me in surprise when he saw my new location.

"You shouldn't have moved," he said sternly. "You could do yourself more harm."

I stared at him. "You're a bully."

"So you've told me before," he sighed, tossing the belt onto his desk. "I have had a difficult day. Is there a reason you are telling me this now?"

"You were just intimidating those children," I accused. "You wanted to see them scared, not hurting."

"I'm not a complete monster."

"It's about the power, isn't it? The power you have over other people, _that's_ what makes you tick. You _were_ prepared to beat them, you can't deny that, but they're frightened enough of you already and you _agreed_ with me that the infraction didn't really deserve it." My eyes met his. "You can take the man out of the Opera House, but you can't take the Opera Ghost—"

He reached out suddenly, putting his cold fingers to my lips and startling me into silence.

"Shh," he told me. "You know what happens to people who say too much. You have made me angry once this evening; don't do it again."

I looked into his dark eyes for a moment, and then nodded. He returned the nod, then turned to his desk, fished around among his paperwork and passed a score to me.

"A new song," he announced. "It needs lyrics. As Dr. Gangle said, you need to do something that does not require dancing, and since you're so good at telling stories, Meg, set one to music."

I looked from him to the score and back again, a doubtful frown furrowing my forehead.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. In fact, perhaps you should write down some of those ghost stories you've been telling the children. Maybe they can be sold; we need to make more money, Meg."

I scoffed. "No one would accept writing from a woman."

"Then write them under a man's name."

"Like what?" I challenged. "Erik Mulheim?"

He made a face.

"How about Gaston?" He suggested. "Add a little of that gothic romanticism you're so fond of, Meg, and maybe one day, your name and mine will go down as legend." He looked down at my bandaged ankle. "I guess this means I will be fetching our dinner for awhile. I'll help you sit at the desk." He moved his arm around me and helped me hobble the short distance to his desk, my weight leaning on him. "If you experience pain, have some brandy. Not too much—I'll ask Dr. Gangle about more painkillers for you."

He sat me down, moved the brandy bottle and glass closer to me, pushed the inkpot and pen across the desk, then gave me a look I couldn't interpret. His eyes held mine, then he turned away and exited the tent. I looked at the dropped tent flap for a moment, then lowered my eyes to the score and began humming the notes.

Erik's story, if he ever chose to tell me the whole of it, would certainly be a tale worth hearing. Even the part of it that I had lived in the Paris Opera House would be enough to enthral the readers on these shores.

Still humming, a picked the pen out of the inkpot with my right hand, and wrote a title across the top of the score.

_The Phantom of the Opera_.

XxXxXxXxX

Fun facts about "Spare the Rod":

This story took 7 days to complete

It takes place in approximately 1886

Benjamin Alexander owes his name to two brothers who have both played the Phantom

The average height for men of the time was 5'6". Meg is 5'2", Benjamin is 5'6", Erik is 6'2" and Dr. Gangle is 6'6"

The French Benjamin (attempts) to say to Meg means "Goodnight, Miss Giry. Sleep well." She responds "You too."

$100 in 1887 is the equivalent of roughly $2,400

According to Susan Kay's novel "Phantom", Erik was a morphine addict, hence Dr. Gangle's reluctance to hand over the painkiller.


End file.
